


The Alternative Antidote

by kyloewok



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Blood Play, Clothed Dom/Semi nude Sub, Degradation, Delirious Reader, Denied orgasm, Dom!Kylo, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fingering, Forced Handjob, Handcuffs, Knife Play, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Kylo Ren is a Sadist, Medic!Kylo AU, No Aftercare, Slapping, Wound Play, dubcon, latex glove kink, praising
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:48:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29382306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyloewok/pseuds/kyloewok
Summary: The audacious Kylo Ren was deployed by his leader to disguise himself as one of Selonias best medics, as he was in search for a specific Resistance pilot that could harbor the force. Fortunately for him, a squadron of TIEs shot down your ship, and now, you were his next patient, and a subject to his duties.(One-shot/drabble)
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Reader
Kudos: 5





	The Alternative Antidote

A persistent beep emerged you from your state of unconsciousness. White noise mingled with the agitating dings that roused you out of your slumber. Your eyes fluttered open leisurely and you hissed, your vision being bombarded with white, luminescent lights. 

A migraine sheathed the walls of your brain, protruding your scattered, barely cohesive thoughts. Wires were latching onto the expanse of your numbed skin and you trashed your limbs arduously to escape the imprisonment of tubes and other medical equipment—

Only for your abrupt movement to provoke a twinge of agony through your abdomen, and every other malfunctioning organ in your body. You seethed, a gravelly scream of anguish. Clutching onto the main source of the pain—your dismantled, wounded stomach— your trembling fingertips were greeted with a warm, sappy pool of blood. 

Crimson oozed through the cavernous, infected wound, leaking through the thin cotton sheet draped over your writhing figure. The blood was thicker than molasses, lapping up in dried patches along your scorched belly.

Your breaths were labored, lips quivering. You were hyperventilating. Without the knowledge of your surroundings, or the instigator of your fatal condition, your thoughts were perturbed and reeling your swollen mind. 

A guttural, cracked squeak elicited from your throat when you tried to scream for assistance. Tears brimmed your eyelids, streaming down your cheeks— which were just as ablaze as the rest of you.

Soot and ashy rubble had accumulated all over your body, from the raw crevices of your skin, to the pouch beneath your fingernails. Every inch of you was coated with grime and soil. And blood. Loads of blood. 

The pain was excruciating, an insufferable feeling that you never wanted to grow acquainted to. Your insides were twisting, taut with starvation. Your throat was burning and scratchy, parched from the lack of hydration. Your skin was peppered in scars, patchy second degree burns that left it raw and shriveled. 

There was a quaint, soft knock. The corridor adjacent to your cot breached open tediously. You observed the slow, creaking threshold through narrowed eyes, disoriented. 

A murky blob of vague, dull colors consumed your vision. A crisp white— and black. A thick, coiled head of black tendrils. 

The apparitions strides were deliberate and methodical. Heavy and burdening. The presence of the peculiar person— whom you presumed to be a medic— was palpable and unsettling. 

"It looks like you reopened your wounds." A rich, naval voice muttered monotonously. 

The man approached your side, investigating your condition attentively. He lowered his clipboard onto a medical cart, wielding a scalpel from his coat pocket and settling it down next to it. 

You gulped, your clammy fingers applying pressure to your own wound as you blinked at him feverishly.

He pawed your hand away gingerly, replacing your sticky fingers with his— long and concealed with latex. 

Your vision improved by a minuscule now that he was hovering over you. His raven locks falling into his face like sheers. Your glossy gaze was captivated by his— black and ravenous, speckles of honey peppering the voids of his irises. 

His features were prominent and strong, consequential, as he interfered with the flow of your blood and pressed into your abdomen firmly. He kneaded precise circles into the wound and you sputtered, eyes trailing down to follow the durable mechanics of his fingers. 

A white hospital gown was loosely matted to your frail, scathed frame. Meaning your piloting uniform had been discarded— and decomposed of. A pitiful reminder of your expected duties that had morphed into a sour catastrophe.

The plans you were established to be the messenger of were abolished, destroyed in the explosion. Volatile, victim of the brash flames that consumed your ship— the ship that used to be your X-Wing before being targeted by a squadron of TIE fighters. Now, the unsalvageable rubble laid lifeless on the surface of Corellia. 

And now you were undergoing unfathomable, lethal conditions— thanks to the First Order's venegence and corrupt form of negotiating, consisting of bloody wrath and violence. 

The contents of the transmitter you were delivering was classified, even to you— the messenger. Corellia was just a ginormous piloting station... so what could the First Order possibly acquire from this merciless attack? On you? Just another, arguably innocent pilot? 

"I'm going to need you to relax," the medic sighed, tone a combination of soft, mundane and commanding. 

Your eyebrows knitted together as your blurring gaze darted from his hazel eyes— that were concentrated on your raw wounds, enraptured by your injuries— and the strained clench of his jaw, twitching as he grew earnest and engrossed with his ethical work. 

Pins and needles prickled at each quivering limb of your dissociated body, the wounds he was plucking and prying with several silver utensils was numbed of the agony. The occasional whine would slip past your cracked, swollen lips. 

"You're tense." He exhaled heavily.

Pivoting away from you, his deliberate steps ricocheted off of the blinding white walls as he scrambled to the opposite side of your cot. 

"I can't work when you are tense." He hissed accusingly, glaring at you. 

He fumbled with the tray plastered on top of another pristine, white condiment— a glossy, reflectant counter, spotless of any muck. His black, latex fingers were coated in crimson as he organized his tools tardily. He scooped up a bundle of medical tape and thick gauze. 

A blotchy, timid blush nestled into your cheeks—which had already been bloodied and rouge—as you bashfully sealed your eyes shut and drawled wheezy, tranquilizing breaths through your mouth. 

"Very good." He grumbled, clicking his tongue. His dry glove came into contact with your scalp, you purred as his fingers feathered through your tousled hair. 

"I need to disinfect the wounds. It's going to hurt." He stated blandly, stroking your hair continuously as he fiddled with his supplies. 

He made prolonged eye contact with you, pausing until you nodded in response. He picked his deliberate movements back up, cradling a glass bottle of rubbing alcohol. 

He twisted the cork concealing the bottle, jerking it out with a soft pop. Tossing it onto the medical cart heedlessly, he titled the bottle diligently and you gasped when a few droplets of alcohol collided into your skin.

Trashing and spewing whines, your hands instinctively shot out and grappled with his white coat for support through the stings. 

He slammed the bottle down, growling curses to himself; his facade of decency had crumbled, revealing his vexation and annoyance. The malicious snarl on his face was grizzly. The hospitable doctor he embodied just beforehand was replaced with menace. 

"Do I need to restrain you?" He spat, jaw clenching as he bent at the waist to collect something— metallic and hefty— from the bottom rack of his medical cart, and your trembling body froze. 

"N-no." You frenetically shook your pounding head, voice wavering between croaky and mortified. The silver railing of your cot obscured your vision, barricading the sight of the materials he was rustling through.

He shifted back to his full height; a pair of handcuffs dangling loosely from his pointer finger, his expression solemn and empty. 

Handcuffs in a medbay?

The tendons in his knuckles flexed through his latex glove as his hand circled your wrist and yanked you forward, his thumb pressed into your wrist bone mercilessly. He looped a single glacial cuff around your fragile wrist, hooking the other end to the railing. 

"Squirm again, and I'll sedate you." He threatened huskily, his voice dropping a few octaves. You supplied him with a sheepish, obedient nod. He hummed appreciatively in response, low and gravelly. 

His fingers danced along the burnt, tingling flesh of your thigh and you tensed. Staring at him with wide eyes and your mouth pathetically agape. He scowled, his disapproving face was followed by a brash, painful spank to your thigh and you jolted. 

Buzzing reverberated throughout your entire body, loitering in your thigh as you whined from the torment on your sensitive skin. He only snickered, observing your vulnerable stature with a devious gleam of lust sparkling in his predatory gaze. 

Through the twinge of pain, there was pleasure. Shame nipped at your skin, regardless of the wetness accumulating in your panties. You pressed your thighs together, mewling from the friction. 

The medic scoffed, "Little slut. You like this, hm?" He mimicked his previous action, slapping with maximum force. Your teeth gritted together, a pulse vibrating, thudding in your cunt. 

He hummed, stroking his jaw quizzically as he rounded the foot of the bed; hovering over the flat frame by your feet, stature broad and stance wide. Expecting any form of instruction from him, he offered you none. Instead, he titled his head and quarried you with a stare vacant of livelihood. 

As if he could sense your fret and bewilderment, he adjusted his coat, smoothing out his neatly pressed scrubs underneath, rounding the cot to his original position. 

"I have an alternative method to healing you." He stated prudently as a smirk erupted onto his face like a voluptuous volcano, emitting gushing lava that melted and molded his face into something sinister and primal. Something starving. "If you are interested." 

You considered his ambient suggestion, breaking free from his alluring gaze. Instead, you fixated your attention to the bland, albeit picturesque interior of the medbay. It was plain and disarming, incapable of pacifying your spiraling notion. 

"Will it get me out of here sooner?" You asked hopefully. 

"Maybe." His plump, admirable lips pursed as he grumbled, his intoxicating eye contact with you never wavering. 

Turmoil bombarded your senses. Loyalty was a discernible moral of your dignity. Apart of you thought by submitting to this medic, you were betraying the resistance. They relied on you for this mission to smooth steadily. You should've been escaping the clutches of the medbay— and searching for the lost fragments of the information that had been destructed from the accident. 

"Do you want it or not, doll?" He sighed intolerantly. The seams of his gloves squeaked when his hand settled on your belly, rising and falling skittishly against his palm. 

"Yes... please?" You mumbled coyly, bowing your head. 

His opposite hand slithered up your torso, creating sparks of arrousel in its wake, before his thumb pinched your chin gingerly. "That's a good girl." He mused softly, his features displaying the notion he was impressed. "So obedient for me all ready."

The warmth in your lower belly spread like a wildfire through your dejected veins, pumping your heart with anticipation, adrenaline. 

His fingers swiped along your sheathed wound and you gasped, recoiling from his touch to the best of your ability— to no avail, the unoptimal restraint on your wrist and the cot below you prevented your hasty movements— getting you nowhere. 

The sensation of his fingertips tenderly protruding your wound morphed from agonizing, to exhilarating in a sense. The twinges of pain had formed into prickling warmth, aiding the friction between your legs. 

"Mmmph." You mumbled incoherently, eyes fluttering shut from the pleasurable feeling. Your back arched and you pressed your scathed belly further into his touch.

His fingers prodded the gash continuously, his attention strictly set upon your face that twitched with anguish and desire all at once. When his touch abandoned the wound, it burned and you seethed. 

"Look at me, little one." He demanded earnestly, and your eyes snapped open to oblige his orders.

His fingers were coated in blood, and he spared you approximately two seconds before they slipped past your lips and pumped down your throat. You gagged in astonishment, before adjusting to the rhythm of his movements. The metallic taste of your blood and the sour, rubber latex mingled together and lapped up on your dry tongue. Your cheeks hollowed out and you suckled on his fingers to appease his cruel demeanor. 

"How does it taste?" He asked inquisitively. You hummed unintelligible nonsense into his fingers, thrusting at his leisure. "Open." 

Your jaw dropped, lips parted. He slipped his moist fingers out, dipping them into the puddle of blood skewing your abdomen. 

He groaned flagrantly as he pumped his own fingers into his mouth, tongue swirling around the pools of blood. Crimson was dribbling down his chin, painting his skin as it billowed down his neck and dribbled onto his white coat. 

"Kriff." You rasped, eyes bulging, pussy fluttering. 

His fingers leisurely tugged on his bottom lip as he freed them of the soft, plush grip of his lips. He grinned at you deviously— revealing his canines, tinted crimson— and smeared your blood all along his lips and chin. 

"Mm." He hummed with satisfaction, licking his bloody lips. 

His gloved hand found yours, slithering past the tubes and wires glued to your skin. The muscles in your arms belched, twitching as he leisurely lifted your hand off of the bed. He guided it towards himself, and your breaths quickened when your fingers neared the tint in his pants.

Your fingertips traced his bulge as it pulsed in his black, skintight pants. He sucked in a sharp breath, tightening his grip on your wrist and forcing you to apply more pressure to his cock.

Your fingers instinctively curled around his bulge, kneading tediously. He growled appreciatively under his breath, his hand abandoning yours and feathering through your hair. "Can you feel what you're doing to me? Hm?"

You nodded slowly, tongue darting out to lick your swollen lips. His fingers massaged your scalp as he hissed under his breath, pawing your hand away and rounding the foot of your cot. 

His honey-speckled gaze glistened beneath the beaming lights, twinkling brilliantly, as a devious grin tugged at his lips. He thumbed the hem of your hospital gown, bunching it up leisurely. He rolled the crisp polyester over your scathing wound, deliberately unraveling the modest areas of your body. 

The cot squeaked, raptured by his bombarding weight as he rustled with the remnants of your gown and climbed over you. He hovered, applying minimal pressure to your frail frame, as his animalistic gaze penetrated your breasts. 

He swiftly bowed his head, his mouth making a pounce on you. His tongue flicked and teased your nipple, devouring it eagerly. His free hand was clawing at your freed breast, palming the flesh. You moaned softly, chewing on your cracked lip to suppress the whiny noise. His raven locks tickled your collarbone and your unrestrained hand slithered up to feather through his hair, only for him to swat your hand away. 

The brisk nudge of his hand was followed by an aggressive crack to your cheek, your head thrashing to the side. His lips continued suckling on your nipple, groaning and humming into your flesh, grinding his hard length into you. 

"Did I say you could touch me?" He rasped accusingly, making prolonged eye contact with you as his tongue vigorously swirled around your stiff nipple. 

You shook your head sheepishly, drawling a harsh breath in through your parted lips. "N-no. I'm sorry, Doc." You whimpered, fingers twitching at your side as you yearned to play with his luscious tendrils. 

He hummed approvingly, his lips abandoning your breast and peppering sloppy kisses along the valley, trailing down your torso. 

His lips hovered above your raw, gushing wound and he licked his lips sinisterly. His ravenous gaze flickered to yours, perceiving the hitches of your breath, and his mouth dove straight for the gaping hole in your stomach.

Your hips bucked, back arching in response to the warm, tingling sensation in your abdomen as his tongue protruded the gash. Blood gushed out profusely, dribbling down the sides of your waist, pooling in a sappy puddle on the cotton sheets as you writhed.

Your jaw was slack, moans of anguish and pleasure eliciting from the depths of your throat as he swirled his tongue around the wound with animalistic passion. He nibbled on the scathed flesh surrounding the injury, grasping your hips to pin them down. 

One of his hands slithered down your bare thigh, trailing a crimson ribbon of blood down your leg. His fingers dipped into the space between your thighs, nearing your entrance. He teased your clit, rubbing delicious, precise circles, spreading your blood around.

Your legs spasmed as you stifled a whimper, enthralled with the deliberate mechanisms of his thick fingers and warm tongue. He lapped your blood up on his tongue, consuming it shrewdly. 

The latex concealing his fingers squelched when he eased two fingertips into your blazing core, grunting when you clenched around his digits. He pumped them in and out of you slowly with an allured gaze, attentively observing the way his fingers— coated in blood and your arousal— disappeared into your wet cunt. 

"Oh my gods..." You blubbered, thrashing your head as he hummed to himself and picked up the pace of his fingers. The slushy fapping sound of your pussy fed him gratification, and he devoured it prudently. 

His lips abandoned your wound, he sucked in his crimson drool as it drizzled down his chin and beaded on your stomach in hefty droplets. His teeth were tainted a ravishingly burgundy when he grinned at you, showcasing his pearls flagrantly. 

His thumb pinched and massaged your clit, aided by your blood. His fingers curled and scissored inside your core, pumping at a rabid speed. "Take my cock out, you filthy whore." He growled demandingly, his free fingers dipping into the pool of your blood and coating his gloves as you obliged his commands.

Your hand scrambled to palm his bulge, you one-handedly fumbled with the metal clasp of his belt. It took a few grunts and devoted plucks of your fingers before you managed to release his belt, yanking it off of his waist and tossing it to the floor.

Your clammy, eager fingers thumbed the buttons and unclasped them hastily. You crammed your hand into the gap separating his cock from the fabric of his pants, fisting his massive girth and untucking it from his boxers.

The head of his cock was swollen and red, leaking precum, throbbing in your miniature-in-comparison palm. The veins of his pulsing shaft were strained. 

He seized your wrist, plummeting your fingers into your wound, collecting blood on your digits. He maneuvered your hand back to his shaft. You curled your fingers around his dick, impressed by the notion that they couldn't fully wrap around his girth. 

You started to pump his throbbing cock tediously and his jaw clenched, his knuckles cracking your scorching cheek for the second time. "Good girls say please.'" He cocked a brow, voice gravelly with influence. 

"Please." You mumbled bashfully. "Let me play with your cock."

He huffed, increasing the speed of his fingers inside of your core, plucking your sweet spot. You jaw dropped and you moaned wantonly, squirming and pressing your pelvis into his hand. 

"Good." He praised lowly, nodding you along. "Continue."

You complied to his orders audaciously, fisting his cock vigorously, spreading blotchy pools of your blood all over his shaft. You coated his balls, shaft and the tip of his cock in crimson, twisting your wrists and pumping with enthusiasm. 

He hissed in pleasure, kneading your clit unethically and swiftly, teetering you towards the edge. He must've felt the way your walls fluttered and clenched, for he slowed his rewarding pace and barred his teeth together.

"Sluts don't get to cum until given permission." He stated earnestly, deliberately slipping his fingers in and out of your dripping pussy. "Am I understood, little girl?"

You whined and sputtered, the warmth in your lower belly being bombarded with denial. 

When you failed to respond and prove your acknowledgment, his fingers slipped out of you and you gasped as the glacial air of the medbay ghosted your pussy. He outstretched his palm and grappled for an object on the medical cart, wielding back a pristine, reflective tool. 

A scalpel. 

Your hand was still pumping his shaft with brisk, petrified motions. He seized your jaw with his vice grip, propping your lips open. He pressed the silver, dull surface of the scalpel into your tongue and you gagged. 

"Have you any manners? Hm?" He roared, digging his claws into your skin, nearly piercing your tongue with the blade of his scalpel. "Pathetic." He huffed. "Now make me cum, slut."

Turmoil outweighed your desire, and you complied to his malicious demands nevertheless, jerking his cock at a rabid speed. You would thumb the head and smear precum along his shaft to quicken your hasty mechanisms, aiding the drying blood as it's lubricating assistance wavered. 

His dick pulsed, spasmed in your clutch, and his hands shot out to feather through your hair as he released a guttural groan. His hot seed shot out in messy spurts, spraying your face, stomach, and the sheets limply swathing your body. 

He yanked the scalpel from your mouth, tossing it to the floor with a dull clank. He thrusted his hips into your palm slowly, the hinges of his jaw snapped as he recovered from his climax. 

You collided with the silky sheets, writhing with a groan of agony. Every ounce of your dejected body felt cripple, swollen and fragile. The thumping of your pestering migraine returned as all the energy flushed out of your body, draining from your tethered soul. 

The medic straddled your hips, tongue poking his inner cheek as he tucked himself away frenetically. He uncuffed your bruised, limp wrist, tugging it gently to rest in your lap. 

The sheets rustled, cot creaked, as he relieved it of his weight. He fumbled with the collar of his coat, replenishing his stability and steadying his circuiting breaths. He collected his stethoscope from the medical tray, situating it around his neck. He scooped up his clipboard and an ink pen, jotting down a chaotic sequence of words, clicking the pen repetitively. 

Consciousness was oozing out of your body with the profuse flow of blood, your eyelids heavy with fatigue and your breaths stabilizing as your gaze morphed into a murky cloud of black.

Latex fingers caressed your scalp, "A real medic will be in shortly, doll."

────────────────────────────


End file.
